


What you Choose

by sc010f



Series: You Can Choose your Friends [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can choose your lovers but you can't choose their families. Q appreciates this fact better than most people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What you Choose

There's something about James Bond that's _off_.

Not necessarily in a bad way, at least not for a double-oh. He still kills with a violent panache, lies like a champion, still plays poker, backgammon, and women like he was born to (well, perhaps he was), and destroys things (and occasionally people) as if it were his birthright (well, perhaps it is). 

Q knew all this before he snarked at Bond in the National Gallery. _Everyone_ knows James Bond, after all. He's MI-6's best worst-kept secret. But finally, _finally_ , when he's got Bond grinding against him and the worktable in Q Branch leaving a serious contusion on his backside, and Q's gasping for breath and reveling in the massive bruise that Bond's practically chewing into his neck, Q realizes that there's something about him that's _off_.

He comes before he can make heads or tails of it, and as his brain starts to dribble out of his ears (pants, perhaps?) Bond comes as well, with a grunt-groan that sounds like his very soul is being pulled exquisitely from his body. 

"Well, 007," Q says after his vision clears and he's certain he can stand on his own again. His backside hurts like fuck and his trousers and pants and shirt front are sticky and cold, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat, given the chance. 

"I trust you got what Q Branch requires?" Bond asks. "As you can see, I managed to return our equipment in one piece this time."

"Indeed, 007, Q Branch thanks you for your devotion to keeping our valuable tech in one piece," Q says with a cough – innuendo has never really been his style, and he fervently believes punning to be a sign of serious brain damage. If he had bothered to even get his trousers _down_ in the first place, he'd have zipped them at this moment and turned away. As it is, he's still firmly tucked into his pants and trousers, even if they are coated in what he's privately terming Bond's 'super semen', judging from the lab samples he's sneaked from Medical. 

Bond leans closer in and licks the shell of Q's ear – he shivers and a moan escapes him. 

"Care to continue your inventory?" Bond breathes, and Q, far from being the desperate sex-starved geek he is, just manages to inject some dignity into his response.

"Ungh, yes."

* * *

Bond, it appears, has little to no refractory period. 

Q may be young, but he's not seventeen, thank you very much, and he does need at least _some_ time to recover. The trip back to Bond's flat is interrupted twice by sessions of furious groping and snogging and once by a very startled pigeon. 

When Bond tumbles Q onto the sofa, all bets are suddenly off, and Q finds himself with a mouthful of very hard, very thick, James Bond-flavored cock which he decides is absolutely the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he doesn't even have his trousers (still sticky, not quite as damp) off yet. His shirt is, though, and Bond comes all over his chest, and Q's brain short circuits _again_ as Bond bends down and runs his tongue over Q's nipple, cleaning up his come. 

"Ooooh," Q manages to croak intelligently, and the look Bond gives him could melt entire server rooms. 

"Exactly," Bond replies. And Q's cock takes immediate and enthusiastic notice (as if it hadn't been paying very close attention earlier). Bond is gorgeous and tight around Q as they rut against the sofa. The leather grows slick and soft beneath Q's knees as he thrusts into Bond – _James_ – grasping and gasping and trying to leave those telltale fingertip bruises for him to find later – after they’ve gone back to their normal lives of code and espionage: of long nights, pointless waiting, endless information streams, and moments of sheer terror. 

James is muttering the filthiest things Q's ever heard, and if he were not almost completely lost in the heady sensations of sex – the sweat, the smell, the rough pull and push of another man, the friction of hairy thighs and sting of blunted fingernails – he'd be blushing. He's a man of the world, but some things… he's not like his contemporaries, foul mouthed and crude; he finds no pleasure in such vulgar rebellion. 

Instead, it's making him harder, more eager to fuck James, and Q thinks the word _fuck_ with relish, because truly English has no other word to fit their actions, and his balls are tightening and there's a live current running through him, and at some point he knows his mouth's gone slack as he loses his pace and comes hard, his body bending back in an awkward bow as he grinds his pelvis against James's arse and he feels the warm and sticky rush of come _again_ on his stomach. 

Q refuses to spend the night, and to make up for his ruined work clothes, James loans him a pair of track bottoms and a woman's t-shirt with Cardiff Police Charity Football Association emblazoned on it, and offers to drive him home. Q opts for a cab and, wrapped in his windcheater, almost manages to avoid the "just got shagged, going home to sleep in my own bed now, thank you very much" label. Almost. But the ride across London is worth it for a hot shower that's _his_ and for the distance from James – _Bond_. Q's neither stupid nor naïve; if he’d wanted to fall into a black hole, he would have stayed. But he's not so overwhelmed by Bond that he can't pull himself away. Not yet. 

And anyway, there's something _off_ about him.

* * *

"I hear you had a good time last night," Eve says with a smirk, slinking onto Q's worktable. 

"I did, yes," Q agrees. There's an ink spot on her skirt: one of Tanner's all-purpose signing pens.

"He really is…"

"Above average, certainly," Q replies. Why is Eve using Tanner's pens? There's another smudge on the heel of her hand; this one's from M, though. "You've enjoyed what 007 has to offer, too."

"Mmmm, once or twice. Yes. Are you two going to make it a thing?" 

I hardly think so," Q snorts. 

"Aw, not your type? Or do you think you're not his?" Eve grins. 

"I wasn't aware Bond _had_ a type," Q says. 

"Oh, he does, sweetie – willing (most of the time) and with a post code. Although the post code's optional." Eve swings her legs and leers at him. 

"Is it now?" Q scowls at her. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I read his psych file," she whispers in his ear. Perfume day; definitely wanting M to let her go early, probably has a big date tonight. Lois won’t be happy if Eve has to break it, but if anybody understands the hassles of working for M, it would be her. "Being an orphan can do that to you, you know. Always seeking approval. Unwilling to accept praise from others. His parents died when he was young, not quite old enough to…"

Q is saved from Eve's amateur psychoanalysis by the vibration of his mobile and, in defiance of all laws of subtlety, the monitors flashing a sudden and violent red. 

"Oops," he says as Eve hops down, gossipy officemate and part-time matchmaker vanishing, replaced by the hardened, _intelligent_ woman that he trusts. "Looks like we've got a live one."

"I'll start the PR4's," she says, and hurries to the door. Around him, Q branch clicks over from indolent waiting to tense, organized excitement as 008's voice crackles through the comms. 

The word "orphan" flits through Q's mind – something M had once said, something Bond hadn't said, and something else… a flicker and spark, and then nothing. 

Only the retrieval.

* * *

Seventy-two hours later, and the dates don't add up. 

Q scowls at the computer and runs the numbers again. 

The dates still don't add up. He shakes his head, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a breath. It _could_ be a clerical error, certainly not even MI-6 is immune from them – but then, an error like this one couldn't possibly have gone this long without getting caught.

Plus, it's not the only one: misplaced adoption records, a missing birth certificate. 

Somebody has gone through Bond's file and cleverly excised things. Q takes solace in his mug of tea and does the only thing he can think to do – he waits.

* * *

"Stay." Bond's voice is gravelly and dark. The bed is warm and soft and Q finds he fits perfectly into the crease made by the dip in the mattress from Bond's – _James's_ , again – body. 

He stretches against James, reveling in the quiet noise of satisfaction he drags out of him. He can feel James's cock hardening again, slowly this time, without the urgency of their previous bouts. James Bond is a temptation, and that is what makes him so dangerous. 

Q knows this, and if he's being honest with himself, it's more than a little terrifying. 

"I have to go," he says. "Some of us have an Arab Spring to monitor early in the…later this morning. Is that _really_ the time?"

James tightens his grip around Q's chest. 

"Ah, yes. Toppling governments in your jim-jams with a cup of Earl Grey?" he asks. 

"Mph, don't start," Q protests. "And don't patronize me with Wodehouse."

"It's not Wodehouse," James says into his neck, and for the love of all things wonderful, he's actually _nuzzling_ him. "Wodehouse used the term 'jimjams' in an entirely different context. And what's wrong with Wodehouse? He was a talented author."

"Now who's being pedantic?" Q asks. "And since when do you like _Wodehouse_?"

James releases him and Q rolls (reluctantly) out of the bed, shivering slightly in the cool bedroom.

"Where's it written that I'm not allowed to appreciate his work?" James demands. "I remember when his stories were serialized in newspapers, for fuck's sake."

Q pauses in his hunt for his socks. 

"Newspapers?" he asks.

"Yes. Big sheets of paper. With news printed on them."

Q sits down suddenly as several vital pieces of information fall into place. 

"James," he says quietly. "How old are you?"

* * *

The explosion Q was expecting when he asked the question never comes. 

"Boothroyd knew," James says. Q's monitoring his Arab Spring from James's sofa, wrapped in track bottoms and a Torchwood t-shirt that threatens to drown him. "I'm honestly surprised you didn't."

"It's not like I had an orientation," Q grunts. "My advancement was more of a battlefield promotion. And he didn't exactly leave an exit memo."

James chuckles. 

"So how old are you, exactly?" Q asks him. 

"I was born in 1926 and adopted by my parents the same year. If you ever meet my father, you'll understand why raising a son wasn't high on his priority list."

"So… Torchwood?" Q pauses.

"Beyond the government, allegedly. That clusterfuck at Canary Warf? Them. There's a small branch in Cardiff – that's, as far as I know, the only one left. They deal with… weird shit."

"And your father?"

"Jack Harkness. The – and I use the term loosely – commanding officer of Torchwood Three. He got promoted to 'captain' sometime during the Second World War, the first time – he's lived through it twice, according to him: once in London and once in Cardiff. He's a bit odd. And my father." James combs his hand through Q's hair. It's heavenly.

"So, you have a father who claims to have lived through World War Two twice. I'm not even touching on how _impossible_ that is. The paradox alone is enough to shatter the universe."

"Well, I was born in 1926, Q," James reminds him. "Both Jack and I were involved in the war."

Q pinches the bridge of his nose.

"How is that even _possible_?"

"No idea. Look, I've had enough time to come to terms with the phenomenon that is Jack Harkness. Apparently whatever freak of nature allows him to live as long as he has, and bend the laws of space and time, was passed on to me."

"And the libido, too?" Q asks – resting his head on James' thigh. Heat seeps through his trousers into the back of Q's head. James always runs hot; it's lovely for the perpetually chilly Q.

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes."

"Oh." Q had been joking. A straight answer wasn't exactly what he'd been looking for. But it still wasn't… possible. 

"And look at what we do," James continues. "I could be a pathological liar, yes, but you've seen the evidence. I promise, even though we're not exactly in a business that's conducive to good mental health, it is true. You're not hallucinating, as much as you might like it. 

"Strange things are possible, Q. More things than dreamt of in your philosophy, et cetera."

"Fair enough," Q agrees – promising career in espionage or not, he's the most well-adjusted member of his family, which, if James is correct in his assessment, makes him less well-adjusted than he'd like to pretend. But then, he prefers robots and code to actual people, so perhaps it's not _that_ strange that his lover looks like he's perhaps in his mid-forties but is twice that age – more, actually..

James leans over the back of the sofa and kisses him. Q groans and leans up into the kiss. 

"Besides," James growls into Q's neck, "I got my hands on you first."

Q wonders what in the world _that's_ supposed to mean.

* * *

He finds out rather quickly – three weeks later, to be exact. 

It's a normal day in Q branch, which means code, cleanup, a small "situation" in Korea – elections, apparently (Q's been getting flak from his brother about letting him monitor their bugs for a week now: wars of attrition like this with his family being _normal_ , just like that time with the adventure of the Alice Band) – when all hell breaks loose in Tottenham Court Road, just above the Underground. What Bond is doing there in the first place, Q has no idea, but the emergency channel crackles to life and all of a sudden he's got 007 shouting in his ear for backup. 

Before he can scramble a team – and since when has this been _Q's_ job, he grumps silently – there's a horrible squealing, grunting noise, and if Q didn't know better, he'd have sworn it was Godzilla. 

The CCTV shows that it's not, in fact, Godzilla, or even Mothra, but a man-shaped _thing_ in a boiler suit of all things, stalking 007 and uttering strange grunts. 

"Fucking _Weevils_ ," Bond snaps into his comm, and of all the things Q's heard come out of 007's famously filthy mouth, this is the one thing his brain decides to do a stutter stop on. 

"What?" he says stupidly. "007, clarify. What _is_ that?"

"Fucking Weevil!" Bond shouts back at him. And then, "Jack's going to be _furious_. Is the station clear? There're probably more of them. It'd be my luck."

"That's affirmative, 007, the station is clear, but you do not, repeat not, have clearance to engage. We don't know what that thing is down there, and there's no way…"

The report of a gun resounds in Q's ear. and then he hears 007's smug tones.

"What was that, Q? Sorry, microphone intermittent. Do not engage? No fucking way. That Weevil's dead. I'm going down to find the rest of them, watch my six. When Jack and his team arrive – and bear in mind they're coming from _Cardiff_ , it may be a while – send them down after me."

"007!" Q's protest is swallowed by M's howls of disapproval, and he watches in dismay through the CCTV as Bond merrily engages in a running battle with – at last count there were twelve – of the Weevil-things.

Three hours later, when the Torchwood team finally do arrive, the dust, which had just started to settle, gets kicked up again. If Bond is a hurricane, Jack is a fucking sirocco. 

M and Tanner both, by this point, are mainlining antacids. Bond is bloody but triumphant, and Q has a splitting headache. 

It's with this splitting headache that he watches as The Torchwood team stand around and do nothing while Bond and Jack hug each other. 

"Go down there," M says to Q. "Fix that."

Q knew that was coming. It was what Mallory had said to him first day on the job. And _that_ had just turned out wonderfully.

* * *

As usual, and Q's not sure when it became "usual", they're at James's place. 

As usual – and Q would wonder about _this_ , too, if James' tongue weren't in his arse – his hands are grasping Q's thighs hard enough to leave bruises and Q is bent over the sofa, biting the armrest, whimpering, trying not to come from the accidental brushes of his cock against the smooth leather. 

"Now there's a lovely view." An unfamiliar voice booms throughout the flat, accompanied by two feminine shrieks, a shout, and a lot of giggling.

James twists away and has his gun pointing at the intruder in fractions of a second. At least Q hopes that's the case, because he's just tumbled off the sofa in a jumble of limbs. He scrambles for pants, trousers, _something_ , and ends up with his cardigan draped over himself as he clutches his glasses to his face. 

By the time he manages that much, Bond is up and staring with resignation at the intruders, who turn out to be the team from Torchwood.

"Something wrong with a hotel room?" He's asking Jack, and it clicks that this is James's _father_.

Jack manages to look slightly abashed, but the others – the two women (Gwen and Tosh, Q remembers) and the men (Jack's boyfriend, apparently, and Owen) – are standing around, looking mortified.

Jack is saying something about budget cuts and family bonding as Q scoots over to his pants and trousers and then scuttles to the bathroom to make himself decent. Jack's boyfriend breaks away from the group and opens the door for him.

"Sorry about that," he says as Q scrambles to his feet, cardigan firmly grasped in front of him. He's not a shy boy, per se, but there are some things he'd rather not have a group of perfect strangers see the second time he meets them. Especially considering he'd been… well… considering where James's tongue had just been. 

"Yeah, okay," Q manages. 

"Ianto," Jack's boyfriend introduces himself. "You might be a bit overwhelmed, I suppose… under the circumstances. It's a bit much sometimes."

"Yeah," Q says. He's trying to sidle into the bathroom.

He looks over Ianto's shoulder at the small crowd in the sitting room. James has his pants on, trousers still draped over the chair, and he's opened the drinks cabinet. He's flirting with Gwen and Tosh, and Jack's looking on with a grin that can only be described as "paternal." 

"Yeah," Q agrees. "Whatever. Sorry. Yeah…"

Right now he's had about enough of anything related to James Bond, Torchwood, and especially Jack Bloody Harkness. He slams the door to the loo and dresses, seething. 

At least by the time he's dressed, Ianto's stopped hovering and looking apologetic. 

For some reason, though, that makes it just that much worse.

* * *

Of all the places in the world Q could end up, it probably shouldn't have been at his obnoxious brother's flat, but sometimes life is occasionally like that.

His obnoxious brother's flatmate isn't too bad; his main selling point being, of course, that he's the only person in the world that can put up with his obnoxious brother for longer than five minutes together. But John's also good for a nice quiet cup of tea and a chat, and Q's found himself at 221B more often since his promotion, merely sitting in John's quiet presence and fuming at the idiocy of the world. 

It may be unfair, he thinks as he flops facedown onto the sofa (not leather, more worn, smells of dust and tea and Sherlock's shampoo), that John should have to put up with _two_ of them sulking on the sofa, but he comforts himself that he only sulks there quietly and then cleans the kitchen before he leaves and isn't loudly abusive like _some_ Sherlocks he could name. He supposes that it's probably because Sherlock's the middle child, and middle children are supposed to be the "troublesome" ones.

Certainly he's earned the title.

John doesn't comment and just sits there pecking away at his laptop. 

Eventually Q rouses himself from his strop and picks his way around Sherlock (who's lying face up on the floor, plucking at his violin and muttering to himself) and gets stuck in on the kitchen.

"What's Bond done now?" Sherlock shouts at him from the sitting room as Q does battle with the E. Coli samples Sherlock's finished with. 

"Sherlock!" John remonstrates.

Q ignores him and continues to disinfect. He's glad he bought Sherlock the autoclave for Christmas last year.

"He must've done something," Sherlock shouts. "You wouldn't be doing the disinfecting if you weren't furious with him."

Q shuts the door to the autoclave with a furious thunk.

"It's nothing he's _done_ ," he says. "It's who he _is_."

He leans against the doorframe to the sitting room and watches as Sherlock and John give each other a _look_.

"What?"

"I saw the news," John says quietly. "At least before Mycroft got to it. Dad's in town, is he?"

Q's brain begins to boil. He's pretty sure there's a vein throbbing in his temple right now, and if he could shoot lasers from his eyes (not yet, but soon, his lizard brain promises), he would.

"Dad?" he asks John.

John has the grace to look abashed.

"Jack's your father, _too_? You're Bond's brother?"

John rubs the back of his neck. 

"Sort of," he admits. "Half brother, actually. Jack's got a thing for dark men and blonde women."

Sherlock snorts and returns to his plucking and muttering.

"Oh, _fucking, buggering, bollocking, shit!_ " Q shouts. He wants to throw things, to break things. Mrs Hudson wouldn't like it, though, so he confines himself to a display of uncouth vulgarity instead. "Is Jack Harkness everyone's father?"

John chuckles and shakes his head.

"No," he says. "But I could say the same thing about the number of Holmeses in the world. Especially ones who insist on sulking in our sitting room." He casts an eye over Sherlock, who is studiously ignoring him.

Q grunts, slightly mollified. 

"So, you're… erm… really old, too?" he asks.

John shakes his head. 

"Not yet," he says. "But I think I may be just slightly less susceptible to things that should kill me. When I found out that it's… difficult for me to die, well, I'd already met James in Afghanistan. Mind you, it was still a bit of a shock."

"Yeah, I can understand why," Q says. Although "a bit of a shock" seems like the understatement of the decade.

"He's also an enormous slag," Sherlock contributes from the floor. "John, that is. Gets it from his father, which by the way, is completely nonsensical, but there you go. Jack defies expectations. Sometimes. Other times he's a completely boring, predictable, sexy, annoying, idiot."

"And sometimes dad doesn't realize that he's coming on a bit strong," John adds, glaring at Sherlock.

"Did you just say 'sexy'?" Q asks. 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed in his most annoying "you're being obtuse and stupid again" fashion.

"You _did_!" Q exclaims. The vein, which had begun to subside, threatens to explode again. "Christ on a bike," he swears. "Why? Why? Why does this have to happen to me? What the fuck did I ever do to deserve _this_?"

But it seems that even profanity and vulgarisms can't help him now. 

John takes pity on him and nudges Sherlock with his toe – not nearly as forcefully as Q would (if he hadn't promised mummy there would be no more broken ribs) – as he passes by to fetch a bottle of whisky – a present from Mycroft, from the looks of it. He pours Q a generous measure and presses it into his hands.

"Medicinal," he says. "Do you want me to go over there and, I don't know, have a quiet word with dad?"

Q tries not to look as pathetically grateful as he feels and takes a drink.

"Sherlock's thinking about something, so you should be fairly safe," John continues. "And Mrs Hudson's just downstairs if you need anything.” 

Q steps over Sherlock back to the sofa, clutching the whisky close to his chest. He knocks back the rest of it and flops face-first onto the cushions.

"Right," John says, and Q can hear the gentle resignation in his tone, but honestly, he doesn't fucking _care_. John slaps him gently on the arse – a go get 'em, tiger sort of touch that he hadn't realized men actually _did_ to one another until he'd been able to meet normals, like John Watson and DI Lestrade – and he can hear him pull on his parka. "I'll be back in a bit. Behave, you two."

The door closes gently behind John, and the flat is blessedly silent except for the occasional "twang" of a violin string. And damn it all, it would be perfect if he weren't missing James so fucking much.

* * *

It takes some time, and some very extravagant apologies from Jack, as well as some creative shouting from John.

And some concentrated glaring-at-Jack from Q and Ianto.

But peace eventually wins the day. 

As part of the détente, Q is given almost unlimited access to Torchwood's tech storage and archives (with supervision, but Q knows he'd be able to get back in, despite what Jack keeps on saying about security – he really wants to tinker with the Resurrection Glove). 

James also does his share of apologizing, but that negotiation doesn't revolve so much around sexy tech as it does around _sex_ in general. With Q. In multiple positions. And at different times of the day (and night). 

Really, it's the beginning of a beautiful… something. Or at least Q hopes it will be, at least until the next time Bond nearly gets his balls shot off by a beautiful woman, or Weevils invade London, or something else ridiculous happens. 

Like Bond begging off an evening of rampant and loud sex on the grounds that he has a headache.

Q thinks that after this, he's pretty much prepared for anything that MI6 or Torchwood can throw at him. Well, until Operation Goldfish.

**Author's Note:**

> There are several people to whom I am deeply indebted:
> 
> [Cyerus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cyerus/pseuds/cyerus) for the original concept that Jack Harkness is John Watson's father. You can read that lovely fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/368646);
> 
> Mundungus42 for cheerleading and the concept of the Alice Band, and confirmation of the Goldfish Affair; 
> 
> Bluestocking79 for the beta and PJ for the cheerleading.
> 
> The comment about "shagging anything with a postcode" is attributable to John Barrowman. He was talking about Jack.
> 
> And of course, I own none of this.


End file.
